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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618161">I Put A Spell On You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyItsGee/pseuds/HeyItsGee'>HeyItsGee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All For The Game - Nora Sakavic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A Pangender Octopus Who Roams the Cosmos in Search of Love: The Musical, Cards Against Humanity (I swear you'll understand), Could Be Canon, Digital Art, Fanart, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Jeremy Knox is a softie, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Violence, Post-The King's Men, Soft Jean Moreau, USC Trojans (All For The Game), You'll understand that one too istg, halloween party, jerejean, patrochilles - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:28:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,179</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618161</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyItsGee/pseuds/HeyItsGee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>October the 31st is coming and, although Jean has never been big on celebrating anything, the USC Trojans absolutely mean to celebrate Halloween—and Jeremy Knox, captain of the USC Trojans and Jean's roommate, is particularly excited about it. Having been a Trojan for a little over a year now, it's not like Jean can decline the invitation to attend Alvarez and Dermott's Halloween party. It comes with a single condition, though: the Trojans will have to attend the party dressed up in pairs as famous couples. </p><p>AKA JereJean get to dress up as Patrochilles, there's some angst but also a hella ton of fluff, and it's all very cute.</p><p>ART BY AMAZING @kurrr_a POSTED AS CHAPTER 2!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alvarez/Laila Dermott, Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I Put A Spell On You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/iantosgal/gifts">iantosgal</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>TW: Past Abuse, PTSD<br/>You can also read my other JereJean fanfiction here, "Alphabet Noodle Soup"!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Here’s a fact: Jeremy is twenty-three, and Jean turned twenty-two a month and a half ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here’s a feeling: Right now, Jeremy is smiling like a toddler, and Jean feels too old for the kind of shit the Trojan is putting him through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here’s another fact: Their shared room at the USC is already packed with art prints, professional Exy teams’ scarves, Funkos of the Avengers, a Hufflepuff poster, and some Christmas fairy lights Jeremy claims he must have forgotten to take off the shelves on January.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here’s another feeling: Hauntingly enough, the horrifying swirl of colour, fandom, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>horror vacui</span>
  </em>
  <span> is about to be taken to the next level.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, Jean, I need your help with this. Gather all the exquisite French taste you’ve got in your body.” As his team captain turns around, Jean has to fight off the urge to drag him out of the Walmart and lock him in a basement until so-called spooky season is over. “Bats, spiders, or pumpkins? Which garland do you like best?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few seconds of silence, Jeremy makes a face and clicks his tongue. “Come on, Moreau, this is a matter of life or death. All three of these are super cute, so I really </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>choose one! Only </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>can help me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave them all, then, and stop wasting your money on useless shit,” suggests Jean. “That will help both our room, and your bank account. Win-win situation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Always the life of the party. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Flashing Jean a toothy smile, Jeremy turns his hands and drops the three A4-sized plastic bags into the cart. “You had the chance to get a saying on the issue, and you refused to take it. Now, move. Pumpkins are down this very same aisle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something that Jean doesn’t understand. Because, okay, Jeremy sticks with him twenty-four hours a day, and he doesn’t ever stop being so… So </span>
  <em>
    <span>sunny</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so ready to chase the darkness inside Jean’s mind away with his grins and his endless chatter. And they go shopping for groceries every Sunday, right after their morning workout session. No, what he doesn’t understand is</span>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Remind me, again, the reason why you’re buying all this Halloween stuff?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To decorate for Halloween. Duh.” Rolling his eyes, Jeremy hands him a lamp fashioned to look like a lantern. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he puts it inside the cart, Jean double-checks that it’s only a fancy-looking toy, powered with batteries. The memories of the last time Jeremy was allowed near anything that involved fire, and ended up nearly burning Alvarez’s house down, is still fresh in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not even October yet, Jeremy. Look at yourself</span>
  <span>—you’re wearing those horrible swim trunks for trousers, and flip-flops.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse you?” Before Jean can move away, Jeremy has reached out and grabbed his thigh. “Swim trunks like these? Such a hypocrite.” He tugs at the fabric once, twice, before letting go. The ghost feeling of his fingers against Jean’s skin, though, lingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Pas du tout</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If I were buying Halloween nonsense like you, then you could call me a hypocrite. Not the case. And my point’s still standing. No sane person buys pumpkin garlands in the first week of September.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe no French sourpusses. But dude, come on. It’s the 4th of September, okay. So what? Halloween is a year-round tradition, specially when you’re an USC Trojan. Which you happen to be, so cut the grouch already and help me decide on the bathroom decoration. Yesterday I got an epiphany that maybe we could go for a ‘The Shining’ aesthetics, and simply scribble ‘REDRUM’ across the mirror…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Jeremy babbles on about the hundreds of ideas he has found on Pinterest, Jean’s thoughts drift away. Tired, he closes his eyes. Even though things have gotten better</span>
  <span>—even though </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>has gotten better—,</span>
  <span> his mind will still shut off completely all of a sudden, and cut all ties with his body and senses, so that Jean’s floating in a comfortable numbness where it’s only him, only him, curled up and scared but safe and so far away from anything and anyone who could try to hurt him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe they will, maybe he’ll be hurt, but he doesn’t have to be there while it happens. He can be away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That doesn’t mean that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not when there’s no real danger, beyond one too many garlands hanging on their room’s walls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he takes a deep breath and makes an effort to tune in, allows the familiar sound of Jeremy’s voice to gently untangle the tight knot of fear and powerlessness inside his brain. Allows his captain to tether him to reality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... dressing up as those creepy twin girls…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not easy, but. Jean. Jean, he… He takes another deep breath, and. And. Allows the sun to rise once again.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Right when Jean sees the light, and miraculously understands how to solve the Organic Chemistry exercise that has refused to be deciphered for nearly an hour, a loud bird chirping fills the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dammit, I</span>
  <span> forgot to— Moreau! </span>
  <span>Check the oven!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut that off!” With a grunt, Jean covers his ears with his hands. Although the alarm tone is supposed to be some tropical shit, it’s actually closer to nails against the blackboard. “Next time you set that alarm, I’m going to murder you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oven! Now! Murder can wait!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>check on it!? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crétin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” With a snort, Jean gets up from his desk and walks over to the small kitchen in their room. The oven is indeed on, and when Jean opens its door, it reveals a batch of pumpkin-shaped cookies with chocolate chips for eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oven mitts on, and careful not to touch the plate, Jean takes the plate out. He opens the window, so the fresh air will help cool the cookies, and leaves them on a small bedside table that Jeremy insisted on bringing to their room for that very same, and sole, purpose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. Your cookies are safe now,” he announces. After taking the mitts off and dropping them on the small counter, he glances towards the couch in the middle of their room, and frowns. “Whatever you up to, anyways?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t tell you just yet. It’s a surprise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although Jeremy couldn’t hurt a fly, Jean still doesn’t buy the radiant smile he’s offered. The more dazzling the gesture, the less he trusts it. Last time he fell for Jeremy’s ‘surprises’, he ended up being made up as one of RuPaul’s most iconic Drag Race looks by Dermott and Alvarez. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are still pictures of that, somewhere. According to Jeremy, they are safe in his iPhone iCloud, all the data encrypted and protected by a password. Jean’s still bribing an informatics major to wipe them out of existence as soon as the midterms are over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, yeah. Not a chance in neither Heaven nor Hell that he’s dropping the issue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like your ‘surprises’,” Jean points out. “You’ve got a terrible taste for those. So tell me what you’re up to, or else...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or else, what? You’ll murder me? That’s getting old, Moreau.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or else I’m going to empty the oven tray in the trash can. And give your stack of junk food to Connor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy slit his eyes as he glared at Jean, and said, “You wouldn’t dare.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the short silence that follows, Jean slowly crosses his arms across his chest, and lies back against the counter. Admittedly, Jeremy stares at him with enough intensity to make him feel tickly all over. Still, he’s done for the second Jean bends down slightly to reach for the paper bag where Jeremy keeps all his Oreos and Milky Bars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay, I’ll show you! Buzzkill.” Furrowing his brow, Jeremy raises a hand and motions Jean over. “You’re the worst, sometimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I don’t mean it, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For lack of a better answer, Jean shrugs. He sits down on the couch rigidly, like a wooden toy whose body won’t relax beyond a ninety-degree bending of the knees, and turns his head to stare at what Jeremy’s got in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you ransack the laundromat at the end of the street? What for? We’ve got our own bed sheets, Jeremy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? That’s not</span>
  <span>—” With a sigh, Jeremy shakes his head. “If I didn’t know you, I’d think you’re pulling my leg. Why on Earth would I steal bed linen from who-knows-who, dude!?</span>
  <span> That’s gross.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Option B is, those are our sheets. And I like sleeping under my covers, so I’m hoping it’s the laundromat option.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy’s face clouds over, and for a second, Jean can’t remember how to breathe properly. Is he angry? Is he going to kick him out, once and for all? It’s not that Jean isn’t used to being thrown away the second he’s more trouble than it’s worth, but. Still. ‘Used to’ is far from ‘fine with’. He’s definitely not fine with the idea of Jeremy giving him the sack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he may do so. Hell, he’s going to do so. Jean has crossed a line he should have known better than to cross. It’s the USC Trojans captain, who voluntarily lost to the PSU Foxes out of moral and ethic reasons. Being called a laundry scoundrel can’t have sat all too well with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, Jean. Didn’t I teach you to keep your mouth fucking shut? Once a disappointment, always a disappointment, it seems. Kutabare, you useless piece of shit. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just drop </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>dead </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>already.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re no good, anywa</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“—ar me? Jean!” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Blink. Blink,</span>
  </em>
  <span> blink, and Jeremy’s right by Jean’s side, carefully touching his shoulder. Jean goes stiff under his fingers, but doesn’t shove him away. Not like he used to do a year ago, when he transferred to the USC. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Forgotten on the armrest behind Jeremy, the sheets he was holding slowly slide to the floor. The slowness of it makes Jean think that, somehow, it’s as if the bedcloth were weeping. For whom, he doesn’t know. Maybe for Jeremy. Surely not for Jean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s movement in his peripheral vision as Jeremy slowly opens his hand to cover all of Jean’s left shoulder. Jean flinches. He can already feel the ghost of a blow being dealt to his ribcage as hands hold him still, as someone tugs at his hair with enough strength that they rip off a handful of it, and he wished he could scream, oh, how he wish he could scream so the silent yell inside of his head would find a release. But he can’t. He’s not allowed to make a sound. Not if he wants to keep all his fingernails, anyways, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>they take so long to grow, don’t you think, Jean? It would be such a waste, so don’t be stupid and keep your mouth shut, you filthy</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—something warm slids across Jean’s shoulders, he’s—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing, you hear me? You’re nothing, Moreau. You’re useless. You’re garbage. You’re mine, and I’m sick of</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—a touch so gentle, Jean barely registers it—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>because you’ll never be anything without me, you’ll never be anything, Moreau, anything, just a broken toy</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—but there’s a whisper in his ear, and it’s so soft against his skin as Jeremy says, “Come back to me, Jean. You are safe. I’m here, and I promise that you’re safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until Jeremy’s left hand reaches for Jean’s and slids inside his clenched fist, slowly opening so Jean’s fingers do so as well, he doesn’t realize how tight he was balling them. Now that he’s relaxing his hand, it hurts. It hurts so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean holds on to the hurt, which anchors him to the present. Then he allows himself to let the warmth of Jeremy’s touch in, which tethers him to the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not in the Nest. He’s in his room at the University of South California's student housing. He’s not with Riko. He’s with Jeremy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not hurt. In pain, maybe. But he’s not hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here,” repeats Jeremy. His mouth brushes against Jean’s earlobe, and it’s so warm. Just like Jeremy. “And I’m not leaving you. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe. Please come back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” Words falter and die on Jean’s lips, murdered in cold blood by the realization of what’s happened. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Je ne…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You</span>
  <em>
    <span> ne</span>
  </em>
  <span> nothing. It’s okay, Jean. Breathe slowly, okay? It’s okay. Whatever he told you, it’s not true. You’re a part of the USC Trojans, and we love you. You belong here. And we—</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> not angry at you. Not about this. Never about this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vulnerable, falling apart at the seams, Jean raises his legs and curls up. Jeremy’s arm is still wrapped around his shoulders, his hand still in Jean’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s nothing you should feel sorry for, Jean.” Jeremy gives Jean’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re still hurting, after all those years in the Nest. Sometimes, the wound will bleed. But that’s okay. Don’t apologize for other people’s actions. Don’t say you’re sorry that they put you through hell. It wasn’t your fault. It’s not your fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it’s just… It has been long since the last time I…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You had a flashback?” There’s a tight knot in Jean’s throat that throbs and hurts and won’t let him speak, so instead, he nods. “So what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I thought I was doing better.” Talking hurts. For a brief second, Jean thinks that he might die, because it doesn’t feel like he can breathe in enough air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>doing better. But recovery isn’t linear, and sometimes there are bumps on your way. That doesn’t mean that you haven’t moved forward.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>I just want to stop hurting. I just want to sleep without being plagued by nightmares. I just want to be able to take a deep breath without fear that my broken ribs will hurt. I just. I just, I just, Jeremy, I just—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy carefully untangles his fingers from Jean’s, and raises his hand to Jean’s chest. “Can you feel my fingers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course he can. Wherever Jeremy touches him, Jean’s body lights up like a newborn star. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold on to that. You can feel me. And I can feel you. Your heartbeat. After all you’ve been through, it’s still there. Your heart’s still working, and you’re still here. Stay here. Stay with me, Jean. I’ll stay with you. I promise. You won’t be alone again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ever so slowly, Jeremy leans back, pulling Jean down with him until their backs are resting on the couch, Jeremy holding Jean from behind his back. Gentle fingertips brush Jean’s hair, and although the two young men clearly don’t fit in the couch—although their legs are tangled together in such a way that they’ll get cramps in less than a minute—this is the safest Jean has ever felt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His throat still hurts. It’s still tied in knots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean shifts, and turns around so he’s face to face with Jeremy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They look into each other’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of them speaks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grey. Jeremy’s irises are grey, like a pool of mercury. One could drown in them. Still, for some reason they help Jean breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a while, Jean buries his face in Jeremy’s chest, and closes his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy smells like home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he keeps breathing.</span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You never really told me what the sheets are for,” mumbles Jean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels weird, speaking out loud. They’ve spent the better part of an hour in complete silence, and although Jeremy’s phone has nearly earned a flight out of the window for all the high-pitched notifications it won’t stop announcing, it’s been peaceful. More than anything Jean can remember.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Jeremy sighs, and sits up. He doesn’t take his hand away from Jean’s hair, but rather, he starts petting in. Jean can feel his fingers dancing across his scalp as he plays with one particular strand near his right temple. “First of all, I absolutely didn’t steal them. These are Alvarez and Laila’s old ones. As they have ordered new bedspreads this week on Amazon, I asked whether I could take these when they got their delivery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Jean cranes his neck to look into Jeremy’s eyes. “That kind of… Makes sense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For all answer, Jeremy arches his eyebrows and offers him a small smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But why did you want old sheets, anyways?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you read the chat group earlier today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean ‘today’ as in the 324 messages?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, those.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a snort, Jean rolls his eyes. “Of course </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That’s a shit ton of stuff to read, and half of it is nothing but memes and stickers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Contorting so as to avoid pulling his hand out of Jean’s hair, Jeremy reaches for his phone. It’s in his back pocket, though, so it’s out of his reach. Of his right hand’s reach, anyways. “Ugh. Mind handing me my phone?” As soon as Jean takes it and puts it on his palm, he unlocks it and starts tapping on the screen. While he scrolls through the morning conversation, he absent-mindedly starts rubbing his fingers in circles against the side of Jean’s head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As I said, a shit ton of stuff,” Jean points out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here. It all started with this voice note</span>
  <span>—”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey hey hey hey, people! So, I was talking with Connor here yesterday</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>—hi, everyone, I’m the absolute fucking genious behind this fabulous idea—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>—shut up and stop stealing the thunder, you fucker!, so yeah, as I was saying, I was talking with this buffle-headed good yesterday. And he says, well, what are we up to this Halloween?, and I’m like, dude, it’s a costume party, we’re dressing up and drinking like fish so we can spend the rest of the weekend dead by hangover—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>—which is fucking sad, actually, I mean, hangover’s a bitch bigger than karma, so if you think about it…, why do we do that to ourselves? We’re such dumbasses</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>—so, anyways, he says, but that’s as old as the hills, Lai, so why not add some interesting twist? And I say, like what?, and he suggests, a theme?, and I’m like, okay, but which one, and he’s like, OH, I KNOW, LET’S DO FAMOUS DEAD PEOPLE!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s fucking brilliant, right!? But I didn’t stop there, because I’m a genious that way, so I said, FAMOUS DEAD COUPLES—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>—like Bonnie and Clyde…, which, by the way, you can absolutely NOT do, that’s what Alvarez and I are doing, so don’t you fucking dare steal our idea or I’ll punch you. But, anyways, that’s it. Halloween party with famous dead couples costumes. Find your spooknificant other, and get yourselves all pretty for the 31st!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the room falls silent again after the voice note ends, Jean swears he could cry from joy. His ears are buzzing from the grating message, and he really can’t reconcile the excruciating audio with Laila’s typically singsong voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, famous dead couples. Still can’t see the purpose of the old sheets, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…” Jeremy’s hand leaves Jean’s hair to run through his own loose curls. “As I assumed that you wouldn’t be even reading the group chat</span>
  <span>, I decided to get us matching costumes. So you wouldn’t have to do much more than simply wear what I tell you to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And we’re going as… Two ghosts?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah, nope.” Were it not for Jeremy’s worldwide-known lack of self-awareness, Jean would’ve sworn that he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>blushing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “No ghosts this year. That’s not a famous couple, Jean, c’mon. That’s a famous lazy costume.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it’s not ghosts, then… Jean scowls. “You’re not making us matching ballerina outfits, right? Because there’s no fucking way you’re making me wearing a tutu.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Jeremy’s whole body starts shaking, it takes Jean a moment to realise that he’s laughing. “Oh my God, Jean, that’d be </span>
  <em>
    <span>legendary—</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck legendary, Knox, you can shave the tutu up your—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“—</span>
  <em>
    <span>but</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you ugly interrupter, that’s not what we’re going for. And no, we’re not dressing up as bride and groom, either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that the two scariest options have been explicitly discarded, Jean decides to simply wait for Jeremy to tell him. He can’t keep his mouth shut for long about anything, so it’s a matter of time. Of a short time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re the USC Trojans. You know that, right?” Jeremy says slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what Troy is, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you know that there were Greek heroes—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, I have a minor in History. Stop beating around the bush.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alright. Jeremy is definitely blushing now. If he touches his cheek, Jean wonders, will they be warm with embarrassment? Most probably. He feels a strange urge to poke Jeremy’s face, and test his theory. He decides not to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jeremy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Patroclus and Achilles,” Jeremy spits, looking away from Jean’s eyes. “We’re going as Patroclus and Achilles. That’s it—Patrochilles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Patrowhat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Patroclus and Achilles’ ship name, dude. Have you ever heard of Tumblr?” Jeremy slaps his hand against his forehead. “Can’t believe I just said that. Holy shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, why do they have a ship name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Jeremy threw his head backwards, and let out a strange noise that was half a groan, half a grunt. “People believe they were endgame. Ancient Greeks were pretty into homo, and some classical texts are quite… Look, if you read </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Song of Achilles</span>
  </em>
  <span> by Madeline Miller, you’ll get it. I think Joe has a copy, somewhere. Ask them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are several things that Jean would rather ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What the hell is wrong with people?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What made you decide that we were going as Antiquity’s biggest queerplatonic friends?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why did you choose them to be our dead couple costume?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why did you choose </span>
  </em>
  <span>me</span>
  <em>
    <span>?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He settles for, “And who’s who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, your hair is black as Dermott’s soul, so unless you’re willing to bleach it… You’d be Patroclus. And I’d be Achilles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Achilles was a dimwit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy pouts. “Thanks, Jean. Really nice of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, but he was kind of an idiot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides them, Jeremy’s phone lets out a sharp ‘ding’. If Jean’s memory serves him right, that’s the ringtone he’s set for his mother. Bells are for his family, birds are for his non-Exy friends, thunder is for Kevin Day, and tropical tones are for the Trojans. Then there’s Jean’s ringtone—a single guitar chord. G major. That’s how Jean sounds to Jeremy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s way more cheerful than Jean would’ve ever guessed anyone would choose to tell his messages apart from everyone else’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He likes it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh. Apparently my little brother has stuck three crayons inside his nose, and they’re now at the hospital. Silly kid,” Jeremy mutters, as he loops his arm around Jean’s neck to type an answer. “He’s just a copycat. I already did that when I was two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice. That explains quite a lot of things, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up, Moreau, it wasn’t entirely my fault. Crayolas smell way too nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two! I said I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>two</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How old’s your little brother, again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s turning twenty-one months next week, actually. Look, I’ve got pictures of him here—my mother sends about three hundred and twelve every day.” Jeremy flips his phone to show Jean a photo of a baby wearing a mini USC Trojans baseball jacket. Red and gold, the Trojan colours, look great against his dark bronze skin. “He obviously takes after our stepdad, but I like to think that he’s somehow a little like me, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both of you like sticking crayons up your nose,” offers Jean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re the worst.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe he’ll grow up into a young man who tries to start the car with their house keys, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you please fuck off?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And forget to turn off their workout alarm on Christmas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Héctor and I officially hate you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile dances on Jean’s lips. He vaguely remembers having to get his Organic Chemistry homework done, and uploaded to the virtual campus before midnight. There’s also this essay, due Friday, on Baroque architecture from the early XVIII century.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls on his side, and buries his face in Jeremy’s sweatshirt. Right away, Jeremy chuckles and puts his hand back on Jean’s hair, toying with stray strands of it. It doesn’t take long for Jean to fall asleep.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>It’s a quiet Sunday that Jean would like to devote to catching up with his Architecture homework and having an afternoon Exy practice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy, of course, has other plans for him. He’s been tinkering around the room for an hour and a half already, filling every corner with hardboard gravestones, plastic skeletons, and smiling Jack O’Lanterns. There are bat-shaped fairy lights all over the TV, and ‘REDRUM’ has been scribbled across the bathroom mirror. A plastic skeleton is hanging from the room’s door. It’s taking Jean all his patience not to throw the Walmart lantern at Jeremy whenever he starts crooning ‘Spooky Scary Skeletons’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been an hour and a half of Halloween-ish hell. And yet, somehow, there are </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>decorations to be put up. Jean wishes for lightning to strike their room, and burn all the stupid Halloween stuff to a crisp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Help me put up the garlands, Jean!” </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Jeremy, it’s still </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>Halloween. And our room looks like a fucking museum of horrors already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sweet Jesus, Jean. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> it’s already Halloween—in this house, we do Halloween all Spooktober.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’re an English major? That’s not even a real word.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, of course it is. I just used it. Now, move your ass and hold the thumbtacks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Jean does as told. Every time Jeremy’s fingers brush against his palm, it feels as if they left a trail of scorching heat behind. And wouldn’t that be funny. Jeremy’s fingers, engraved on his skin for everyone to see. Would they look similar to all the other scars that he sports, he wonders, or would they be different? Would they, too, be thick and jagged? Or would they be smooth? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That night, as Jeremy softly snores, Jean raises his hand to the rays of moonlight that sneak inside the room through the window, and stares at his palm. No new marks on his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him a long time to fall asleep.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>It’s Friday night, and instead of hanging out with the rest of the Trojans, Jean and Jeremy are in their room to give their costumes some finishing touches. Which means, mostly, that Jean has to stand there, dressed in Laila and Alvarez’s old sheets, as Jeremy studies him carefully. Every now and then, he’ll reach for a safety pin to mark the small adjustments that need to be done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The more he stands there, the more Jean feels drawn to the idea of locking himself in the bathroom and not leaving until December kicks in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything alright?” Holding the thousandth safety pin between his teeth, Jeremy looks up to meet Jean’s eyes. “You’re even quieter than usual.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Liar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jean</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a heartbeat of utter quiet. Jean doesn’t usually mind the quiet—in truth, it’s his safe place, as it means that nobody’s around and he can lower his guard a few inches. But this silence feels… Awkward. Wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he relents, and says, “Why is it so short?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>As if he hasn’t, already.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “It’s just… There’s too little cloth. Too much skin exposure. My chest. My legs. My arms.”</span>
  <em>
    <span> My scars.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although he tries to keep his voice steady, he can’t help the way it breaks at ‘why’. The way he can’t hold Jeremy’s gaze anymore. The way his shoulders curl forward, and the way Jeremy steps back. They way he’s frozen in place, just like a deer caught in the headlights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not that he’s angry. Not with Jeremy, at least—if anything, with himself. With the marks, the cracks, that give away how he’s a broken vase. Pandora’s jar unsealed. Mount Vesuvius erupting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to put on a sweater, before we talk about it?” There’s caution in Jeremy’s voice. “So you can feel safer.” Before he’s finished the sentence, he’s already taking off his Star Wars hoodie to offer it to Jean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he slides it on, it’s warm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean still shivers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he mutters. Slightly short on the sleeves though it may be, it’s still better than nothing. Exhausted all of a sudden, he allows Jeremy to take his hand and gently pull him down until they’re both sitting on the couch. Once they’re settled, Jeremy doesn’t let go of Jean’s hand, although he does loosen his grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a brief silence, Jeremy clears his throat, and says, “So.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gaze fixed on their joined hands, Jean turns his head ever so slightly towards Jeremy. So he knows that Jean’s listening. Although… Jeremy knows he is. Jeremy always knows, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. So, um. Here’s the thing—when I did all the pattern designing for your chiton, I actually kinda cheated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See, the regular measures for chitons aren’t quite the ones I used to make yours. They’re slightly shorter. But I knew that would make you really uncomfortable, so what I did is, I took measures of your Exy uniform shorts. You’ve worn those for several matches already, so I assumed they were an acceptable length. That’s the measure I used for the chiton. Not a single inch shorter, Jean, I swear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Under Jeremy’s soft gaze, Jean tugs at the sheet with his free hand. There’s ornamental stitching there that he didn’t notice before—a rather simple meander done in silver thread. When Jean runs his thumb over the Greek fret, it’s smooth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As for the shoulder…” Jeremy sighs. “That’s the one part that gave me the biggest headache, to be honest. There were no pattern designs for two-shouldered chitons, so I figured out how to do it myself. It’s what I wanted to see today, actually—whether the piece of fabric I’ve cut suits you. Although I’ve tried to leave twice the ease I usually do, you’re quite wide-shouldered, so. Who knows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But, yeah, now that we’re talking about it… Once it’s fixed, do you think you’ll be okay with this costume? We can always hit the Walmart for two emergency Pikachu onesies, so…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” says Jean, cutting Jeremy mid-sentence. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>C’est pas grave, je… Je ferais l’effort.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s simply no way Jean won’t be wearing the chiton to the Trojans’ Halloween party, even if it means he’ll have to deal with himself and his demons all night long. If Jeremy could spend an entire week staying awake until 2AM to make their chitons, then he can damn sure spend some hours with his on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure? I mean it when I say there’s always the onesie option. We’d make one hell of a Pikachu couple, y’know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.” Jean’s hands are shaking ever so slightly due to the anxiety brought by the idea of wearing a chiton to the party, but. He clenches and unclenches his fists a few times, trying to let go of the tension in his joints. “We can do Pikachu next year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What Jean expects: For Jeremy to tease him on how he’s just said he might, one day, wear a Pikachu onesie to a Trojan party.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What Jean wishes: For Jeremy to tell him that it’ll be alright, that nothing bad will happen to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What Jean gets: For some reason, Jeremy gives him a small, tight-lipped smile before resting his head on Jean’s shoulder and putting his arms around him. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What Jeremy thanks him for: “For being brave.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Here’s a fact: It’s Saturday the 31st of October, which means it’s Halloween.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here’s a feeling: It’s fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Doomsday</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The Apocalypse is happening tonight, at 9:30PM, in Laila Dermott’s house, and there’s no escape from it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here’s another fact: Connor renamed the Trojans’ chat group in the morning. “USC Wonders” became “Halloween SCARY SPOOKY MEGA PARTY *pumpkin emoji* *ghost emoji* *alien emoji* *beer emoji* *beer emoji* *champagne emoji*”. But it’s still the same USC Trojans. In costumes, sure. But the same Trojans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here’s another feeling: Every single stranger with the power to hurt Jean will be there, ready to see all his scars and rejoice in his misery. All the world’s a stage, and Jean isn’t just a clown</span>
  <span>—he’s the entire circus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, Jean, I think you’re ready.” Hands on Jean’s shoulders, Jeremy softly spins him around so he can see himself in the bathroom mirror. Despite the ‘REDRUM’ that’s still written across the shiny surface, Jean can see how he looks pretty well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How he looks… Different. After several years of wearing dark colours only, the stark contrast of the soft white linen against his skin is just… Shocking. Slowly, as if underwater, he raises a hand to carefully touch the red fasteners on his shoulders that hold the chiton in place. Big-sized and sturdy-looking, they’re lighter than he thought when he first saw them. Down his shoulders and over his cleavage, covering all his torso down to the waist where it’s pleated, the fabric is loose enough that he doesn’t feel self-conscious, but not so much that it appears baggy and too big. Three inches or so above his knees ends the hem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he stares at his reflection, who stares back, Jean raises a hand to press his fingers against his ribs. Against the messy scar tissue that stretches across the twelve bones under which beats his heart. Against the cloth that covers the mess somebody else turned him into.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you feel?” asks Jeremy, cautious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There are no adequate words for the emotional turmoil inside of Jean’s chest. For the whirlwind within him. If there are, Jean doesn’t know them anyways. So he settles for, “It’s good,” and hopes that Jeremy will understand. Will see that no, it isn’t good, it’s so much more than that. It’s cozy and astounding and easy and superb. Jean may not feel good in his costume, but he doesn’t feel terrible, either. And that, for him, is already better than anything he could’ve hoped for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, too, are good.” A small smile dancing on his lips, Jeremy rests his chin on Jean’s shoulder, and nuzzles his nose against Jean’s neck. “Patroclus, dearest friend, I’m going to get dressed myself. Alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then we’ll go to war.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snickering, his breath tickling Jean’s skin, Jeremy says, “Yeah. And then we’ll go to war.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Jeremy finally lets go of him, Jean can’t help feeling cold all over. Which is what happens every time the sun sets, anyways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here we are,” announces Jeremy, killing his car’s engine. Beneath them, the Ford Fiesta shivers before going still, the inner lights turning on as soon as Jeremy pulls the key out of the contact. When Jean glances at Jeremy from the corner of his eye, he finds his silver eyes fixed on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s as if there were ants running up and down Jean’s limbs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything alright?” asks Jean, cautious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what I wanted to ask you, actually.” Pressing his lips into a tight smile, Jeremy taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “You know, we can always call it a night, and tell the guys that, eh…, I had too many Pumpkin Spice Lattes?” He frowns. “I don’t know whether PSLs can make you sick in any way, but it’s as good an excuse as any other. Of course, we’d be spending our night watching Halloween classics such as Hocus Pocus—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, Jeremy. It’s okay.” Jean clenches and unclenches his fists, staring at the bushes that flank the sand pathway to the front door of the Dermotts’ house. “We’re here already. So. We might as well say hi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not necessarily,” Jeremy counters. “I mean, nobody has even seen us yet—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His words falter as, from the car behind which they’re parked, Pam and Joe get down. As soon as Pam locks the car doors and throws the keys inside her purse, she hurries to the pale blue Ford Fiesta. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as Jeremy lowers the window, she chirps, “Hey, guys! So good to see you here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, hey there!” Joe appears by Pam’s side, their face painted the same snot green as hers. Their usually wild curls are tucked under some kind of swim cap, and they’re wearing small antlers. “This is Fiona and Shrek. Who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! My fave ogres.” Jeremy gives them a casual smile, and leans back against his seat. “Just binge-watched the four films last weekend. Where’s Donkey?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a quiet chuckle, Pam says, “Joe’s enough of a donkey themselves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” Pouting, Joe sticks their tongue out to Pam. “See what I have to put up with? Next time we do this couple costume thing, I’m asking Connor to be my ogress.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and I know you won’t, darling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just you wait. Anyways—” Joe turns their eyes to them again, and tilts their head. “Don’t change the topic. You’re going as…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go ahead, take a guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t take Joe even a second. “Achilles and Patroclus?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Impressive. English major, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” With a half-smile, Joe adjusts their antlers. “As well as Greek geek. Can’t be beaten when we’re talking Ancient history. Anyways—I think we’d better get going.” They shiver. “It’s kinda chilly out here. You guys coming?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In a minute or so. Grab us some beers before Connor downs them all, eh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye, captain.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The window goes back up after Jeremy has bumped fists with both Joe and Pam. With a sigh, he turns around to face Jean, and offers him a small smile. “Still want to go? I mean, sure they’ve seen us, but—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s just do it.” With a sigh, Jean reaches out and touches the plastic headband on Jeremy’s forehead. “Careful there, Achilles. Your tiara is slipping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh. Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks, Je—Patroclus. Ever my loyal right-hand man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something special in the way Jeremy’s eyes shine—something Jean can’t quite put his finger on. It’s… Although Jeremy’s wearing a short armour today, and has a shield and a helmet waiting for him in the boot, he’s never looked as disarmed to Jean as he does now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scowling, his brows knit, Jean thinks that this is exactly why he doesn’t do feelings. Too much of a headache.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Allons-y.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets out of the car without waiting for Jeremy to answer. All of a sudden, the idea of the party scares him less than the idea of staying inside the car any longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Jeremy a few seconds to join him in the street. Like Joe said, it’s cold outside—enough that they can see each other’s breath. Easy as it is for Jean to simply switch off his physical sensations every time they get uncomfortable, he simply folds his arms across his chest, and doesn’t give the cold another thought. Jeremy’s teeth are chattering as he tries to wrap himself in his handmade red cape, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-It’s f-freezing o-out here,” he stutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t you bring something to put on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D-did y-you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, Jean takes the car keys from Jeremy’s hand to open the boot. There, under the helmet and the shield Jeremy has spent a week crafting, is Jean’s thick black duffel coat. “Yeah. I actually did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bless your soul,” mutters Jeremy. He must be really cold, because he doesn’t complain when Jean helps him into the coat. “Can’t really wear the shield with this on, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nor the helmet. You’d look dumb.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grinning, Jean reaches for both, and tucks them under his arm before slamming the boot shut. He then locks the car, and leans over Jeremy to drop the keys inside the pocket of the coat. “Let’s get inside before you freeze. You don’t look good when you’re on the verge of hypothermia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t b-be an ass, Moreau, I a-always lo-look good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chuckling, it’s Jean who leads the way to Laila’s house.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Inside the house, it’s warm enough that Jeremy takes Jean’s coat off right away. Most of the team has already arrived, and Laila’s living room looks like a mini Comicon. Han Solo and Princess Leia are sacking the minibar, and passing some drinks on to Aang and Morticia Addams. Katara is helping Lola Bunny pick the music, while Bugs is busy chatting with Joe—Shrek—and Fred Flintstone. Gomez, Wilma, Pam—Fiona—, and a few others are checking the room for anything that may break or be stained. And in the hallway leading to the living room are…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, but who are you, again?” asks Jeremy, handing Jean the duffel coat in exchange for his shield and helmet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Puh-<em>lease</em>, Jer, ain’t it obvious?” Laila tugs on her sparkling blue dress, which takes up the better part of the hallway. “Glinda Upland and Elphaba Thropp, from </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wicked</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yup.” Alvarez loops her arm around Laila’s waist, and says, “Sorry for Fiyero, but we all know that Elphie and Glinda were endgame.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened with Bonnie and Clyde?” Jean tilts his head, handing Laila his coat so she can put it away inside a guestroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, right. Too straight for us.” Shrugging, Alvarez scratches the side of her nose. “Same as you, anyways. We the gays own this party. Patrochilles, right? I cried like a baby when I read </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Song Of Achilles.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I already told Joe that I’m suing the hell outta’ them for handing me the book without any warning that it’d ruin my life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a blast of static noise that startles all four of them. From the living room comes a, “Fuck!”, and then an “I’m sorry, Laila!”, and then a “Hold on, Jemima, I think I know what’s wrong,” and then The Black Eyed Peas’ </span>
  <em>
    <span>I Gotta’ Feelin’</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. That was intense,” comments Alvarez, arching her eyebrows. “Someone should probably double-check that your mom’s sound system hasn’t been ruined.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please and thank you,” sighs Dermott. “It took my dad and I a whole year of saving to afford it, so if I have to be the one asking Jemima to take her mitts off the sound system, she’s not going to make it to the sunrise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On it, love. I’ll be right back.” Pecking her girlfriend on the lips, Alvarez hoists her witch broom menacingly as she walks over to the wannabe DJs in the living room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smiling to them, Laila disappears inside the guest room to hang Jean’s coat inside a wardrobe. Which leaves Jeremy and Jean alone in the hallway, Jeremy looking glorious and all Achilles-y. Although he’d sooner die than say it out loud, Jean can’t help thinking that, tonight, Jeremy does look like godspawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Moreau.” Jeremy offers Jean his free hand, the other busy with the shield. “Let’s go grab a drink before you get cold feet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not getting cold feet.” Jean frowns. “I said I’d put up with the party, and I meant it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laughing softly, Jeremy reaches for his hand and pulls him towards the living room. “You say it as if this were torture. We can always leave early, dear Patroclus.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m no Cinderella, and I'm not leaving at midnight. This party will not defeat me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “We stay until Laila and Alvarez kick us out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wohoo!” Jeremy throws up the arm with the shield. “We’re going to war tonight!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It turns out that nobody is paying that much attention to anyone else. Aside from compliments on their ‘kickass looks, man!’, Jeremy and Jean don’t get any further comments on their looks, and it doesn’t take long for Jean to start relaxing. It’s the same dumb-ish USC Trojans, as Jeremy said. Loud music and crowds do make him anxious—but, after Alvarez tells everyone to stay away from the sound system and some people start sitting on the floor to play board games, the party becomes almost bearable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy and Jean themselves are on their second round of Cards Against Humanity. Despite being a ray of sunshine, Jeremy is surprisingly good at it, and he’s a few points ahead of everyone else—even filthy-mouthed Alec can’t catch up with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ ‘Coming to Broadway this season, gap: The Musical’,” announces Joe, who is the current Card Czar. “Alright, folks, work those wits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean looks at the hand of cards he and Jeremy have gotten, and frowns. “How are you going to make this work? These are all absurd.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed.” Jeremy is staring at their cards with his lips puckered, and blinking slowly. “Gimme’ a sec… Ugh. All of our options suck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grinning triumphantly, Alec puts his card on the table. Shortly after, Laila submits hers, and so do Jemima, Pam, and Connor. All of them lower their cards to look at Jeremy and Jean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here.” Before Jeremy can react, Jean steals a card from his hand and puts it on the floor, in front of them. While Joe shuffles the candidates, Jeremy puts their cards aside and frowns at Jean, visibly confused. Jean shrugs and says, “Trust me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they’re finished, Joe announces, “Here we go, everyone! Just a quick reminder that the sentence was, ‘Coming to Broadway this season, gap: The Musical’. And here are your suggestions… ‘Coming to Broadway this season, The Opioid Epidemic: The Musical’. Pffft—” Joe snickers, and shakes their head. “This one smells like you, Pam.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guilty.” She shrugs. “But that sentence is shitty per se.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, chill, I never said it wasn’t good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> the one saying it. Not my best move.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wrinkling their nose, Joe stares at her for a few more seconds. “Whatever,” they finally say. “Next one up. ‘Coming to Broadway this season, Fellowship in Christ: The Musical’. Which we all know would be an absolute ripoff of <em>Jesus Christ Superstar</em>. Third one goes, ‘Coming to Broadway this season, A Pangender Octopus Who Roams the Cosmos in Search of Love: The Musical’. Hey! This sounds actually good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d defo pay to see that one,” agrees Laila. “Do it for the pangender cosmic octie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’ll be twenty bucks,” chimes in Jemima. Upon Laila’s frown, she adds, “Come on, Lai, do it for the pangender cosmic octie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clearing their throat, Joe waited for everyone to pay them attention before reading the next one. “Fourth submission would go like this: ‘Coming to Broadway this season, Bill Nye the Science Guy: The Musical’. Then, the fifth… OH, HOLY SHIT, WE’VE GOT A WINNER. COMING TO BROADWAY THIS SEASON, KEVIN DAY: THE MUSICAL. I SERIOUSLY CAN’T EVEN—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But that’s not fair! You didn’t even read mine yet!” Alec reaches for the remaining white card. “Here, ‘Vehicular Manslaughter’. Come on!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t waste your time,” says Laila. “We all know how obsessed Joe is with Kevin Day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“—AND THEN HE FUCKING PASSES HIS STICK TO HIS OTHER HAND, YOU HEAR ME!?, KEVIN ‘QUEEN’ DAY—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Pam puts her hand over Joe’s mouth, and grimaces the second they start licking her palm. “Holy shit, Joe, that’s gross! Anyways, I think we all know who won this round. I never thought I’d say this while playing Cards Against Humanity, but nice move, Jean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon seeing Jeremy staring at him, mouth hanging wide open, Jean simply shrugged. “See? Told you. Just trust me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not fair that they get to be a team!” complains Alec. “That’s obviously against the rules!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude,” chimes in Laila, “we’re all drunk. Who the fuck cares about them rules? Shut the hell up and take the loss. Now, Joe, stop licking Pam’s hand and get back to adulthood. We’ve got more rounds to play.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although Jean doesn’t directly intervene again, Jeremy starts asking him every now and then about which card he’d play. When they steal another victory from Alec, after a particularly brilliant usage of ‘Robbing a sperm bank’ suggested by Jean, Jeremy throws his arm around Jean’s shoulders as he whoops. Laila even bumps her fist against Jean’s, and assures him that he has a brilliant Cards Against Humanity career ahead of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone!” yells Connor, turning the music down. “Get your asses up! We’re playing Memory Moves now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sheer terror Jean feels at the mention of the dance game must’ve shown on his face, because Jeremy pulls him closer and says, “We can turn that one down if you want. As a reward for stealing the victory from Alec.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” mutters Jean. “But—if you want to play, do it. I’ll watch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I don’t want you to just linger and watch, Jean, but I don’t want you to do something you don’t feel comfortable doing. So we’re both watching. I’m feeling slightly dizzy anyways, and I don’t want to throw up in the middle of Laila’s parents’ living room. That’s not nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to miss out on stuff because of me, Jeremy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you have to stop assuming that I’m Mother Teresa of Calcutta. Maybe I just don’t feel like playing Memory Moves, and instead just want to chill on the couch for a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though Jean was ready to argue as soon as Jeremy pulled his usual selflessness card on him, he’s now at a loss for words. Because the idea that Jeremy may do—or not do—things because he actually wants to, instead of because he thinks Jean needs him to, is just… Huge. If he doesn’t do it for him, then why? Why does he find it desirable to ditch parties every now and then, so they can stay at their room and have a Lord Of the Rings marathon with Alvarez and Dermott? Why does he buy Mint Oreo Thins—the only Oreos Jean tolerates? Why does he wait for Jean to come out of the showers after Exy practice every afternoon, when Jean is always late because he’s unable to shower if there’s someone else in the dressing rooms? Why does he look at Jean with those big grey puppy eyes? Just…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why does Jeremy keep putting up with Jean?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get up, the couch’s free now.” Oblivious to the raging storm inside of Jean, Jeremy squeezes his hand. “Jean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you stick with me?” stammers Jean, unable to keep the words from spilling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do I—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are tears in Jean’s eyes when Jeremy turns around to look at him. Because he’s overflowing with doubt now, and not even the walls that have gotten him through the darkness, and through the light, can now keep the shadow of uncertainty from flooding his world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jean has never been good at dealing with the unknown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought he could see through Jeremy, but all of a sudden the young man in front of him feels like a mystery. Like there’s been a fog that Jean has failed to notice, and is now lifting to reveal something that isn’t even close to the shapes he thought he could tell apart among the mist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Jean. Look at me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jean looks at Jeremy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his eyes, he finds…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not sure what it is that he finds. But it’s just… Warm. Bright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like sunlight seeping through the fog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You asked for the reason why I stick with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For lack of a better answer, Jean nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Has it never crossed your mind that I might be wondering the exact same about you? Why do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>stick with me, Jean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy cups his hands around Jean’s face, the tenderness in his eyes so unbearably intense that Jean feels like he’ll crumble under its weight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not Jean that crumbles, though. It’s the cell of distrust and wariness he was jailed in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You… Because I don’t…” There’s so much Jean would like to say, and yet, words fail to come to him as he fumbles for a way to let Jeremy know. That he doesn’t just ‘stick’ with him—he’s like a moth, and Jeremy is a bright torch against the night. How could he not be drawn to the only warmth that’s ever been true in his life? How could he not be drawn to the only light that’s ever been real?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a small chuckle, Jeremy tilts his head, and says, “Yeah, I don’t think I have the words right now either. What a disaster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he leans forwards, and presses his lips to Jean’s. It’s just a small, swift touch, but it’s already enough to make Jean explode into a million tiny pieces. Jeremy pulls away slightly, with his eyes closed, and bites on his lower lip. He’s still holding Jean’s face in his hands, though, and his fingers dig into Jean’s cheeks as Jeremy sighs and pulls him in for yet another kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s unlike anything Jean has ever known. It’s… It’s a spark that ignites something inside his belly. And when Jeremy gives Jean’s lower lip a soft bite, well. Jean, who has been frozen since Jeremy first kissed him, is now melting. </span>
</p><p><span>As Jeremy begins to pull away, Jean raises his hand to place it on Jeremy’s back to hold him in place. </span>His other hand goes to the nape of Jeremy’s neck, and as Jean runs his fingers through Jeremy’s tousled blond waves, and moves his mouth against Jeremy’s, he suddenly understands.</p><p>
  <span>They don’t stick with each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They choose each other, over and over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, while it’s pretty easy to guess why someone would choose Jeremy, he’s absolutely bewildered to realise that there’s someone—there’s <em>Jeremy</em>—choosing him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When their lips finally part, Jeremy rests his forehead against Jean’s. He gives him a quick peck on the lips before letting go of Jean’s face, but stays as close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bubbly and dazed, Jean has to blink a few times before he remembers how to speak at all. And he whispers, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Qu’est-ce que tu viens de faire?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon ami.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I put a spell on you,” smiles Jeremy, leaning forwards again already. “Because you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>yours</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Jeremy’s breath is warm against Jean’s lips as they both smile. Jeremy’s smile is radiant, whereas Jean’s small. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>T’es à moi.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Je suis à toi</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jean. You’re the stuff I never want to be missing out. And I’ll stick with you as long as you want me to. If you need some time to, uh…” Suddenly Jeremy is shying away from Jean’s gaze, and all Jean can think is, <em>Don’t</em>. “To process this…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re mine,” repeats Jean. Doesn’t it feel wonderful, to know that someone belongs to him as much as he belongs to them? “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, because Jeremy is his to kiss from now on, Jean leans in to steal one more kiss. And another one. And another one…</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And </span>
  <em>
    <span>another one.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Artwork!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Y'all can follow this AMAZING artist on Instagram! Search for @kurrr_a there!<br/>IF YOU CAN'T SEE THE IMAGES, IT MAY BE BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT ON YOUR LAPTOP/PC!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Can you believe @kurrr_a's freaking amazing art!? I can't, and it's been a week since she sent me the final version of these! I'm head over heels. She's the sweetest girl on Earth, and it's been an absolute pleasure to commission her! If you like these, do check out her Instagram account. She's got more AFTG art, as well as original stuff!</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>(In this second stripe, we've got Renee, Allison, Neil, Andrew, Kevin, and a Riko Pumpkin! Kudos if you can find them all)</strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Character art of Jeremy!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>(Sunlight boiiii!) (Achilles would look ugly besides him)</strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
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